


Urs-A-Ka-Gan part 2

by primreceded



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King, Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-24
Updated: 2009-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:24:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primreceded/pseuds/primreceded





	Urs-A-Ka-Gan part 2

The bar isn’t like the ones they usually frequent. This one is clean and in a new building between a sporting goods store and a bank. The floors are free of sawdust, the walls a dark wood paneling, and the menus more than just different kinds of drafts, offering everything from chicken wings to burgers or even freshly made pastas. The televisions scattered around are all set to various football games, and each one has a small group of men gathered around, some in colored jerseys and others still in their business suits. They’re rowdy, but not overly loud or out of control, so they’re probably safe from being tossed out on their ass.

The actual bar area is full, so Sam and Dean slide into a booth, the vinyl still intact and not sticky at all. Sam tells Dean it reminds him of the bars in California his friends would drag him out to when his excuse of studying no longer worked. To Dean’s surprise, his brother doesn’t sound upset about this. It is only - finally - a passing comment. It still strikes Dean with a pang of regret, though. With guilt.

Sam scans the drink menu as Dean looks around the bar, not giving a shit about the brands, only needing to know that they serve beer. The patrons aren’t their usual fare, either. There’s mostly middle-aged men and women, some on dates, some _looking_ for dates, and the occasional college kid who’s going to wake up with one hell of a hangover and a story to _not_ tell the grandkids. It’s all very tame and very boring.

On his second pass around the room, Dean's eyes land on a woman. She's sitting at the bar alone, nursing a glass of scotch. Long red hair frames her face, her head tilted down, one of her fingers traces the rim of her glass. He can't see much, but her profile is enough to get him interested. The skirt cut up to _there_ helps a little, too.

She must feel someone looking at her because she lifts her head and gazes around until finally settling on him. She's even prettier full on, pouty lips and blue eyes. She's definitely a knockout. He gives her a grin, cocky and sure because he could never really pull off sexy. She grins back.

Dean readies himself to stand, but Sam reaches out with his foot and kicks him in the shin. Dean growls at the pain and bends down to rub at his leg, and Sam gives him an apologetic shrug and mumbles sorry before putting the menu down and grinning up at the waitress who appears at their side.

After they order their beers and the waitress bounces away, Dean glances around the bar again, but the woman is nowhere to be seen. He purses his lips and looks at Sam, but his brother isn’t paying any attention. He brought some notes with him, and they’re spread out before him as he stares at them in concentration.

“What the hell was that?”

Sam looks up from his notes and around the bar, obviously trying to find what Dean could’ve been talking about, then turns back to him, confused. “What?”

“Why did you kick me like that? It _hurt_ , and I was about to go have some fun.”

Sam just shrugs again and goes back to his notes. Dean lets out a frustrated noise and glares at his brother until Sam looks up at him through his bangs.

“Look, I just don’t think we have time for you to be fooling around. This is a serious case.”

“There’s always time for sex, Sam. Haven’t I taught you anything?”

“Yeah, scratching makes it spread.” Dean snorts, and Sam smiles over at him and continues, “This is a big deal, though, Dean. We still don’t know what’s going on, and I need your help. You can chase whatever tail you want when we’re done, but for now can we just focus?”

Dean waves him away, but Sam knows he’s won this round. The truth is, Dean thinks Sam doesn’t really care whether he checks out of the case for a few hours. Sam’s always been better at research anyway; Dean has the attention span of a five year old when it comes to the specifics of their investigations. He thinks Sam just wants to keep him close, now that they haven't got much time left. And if he’s out with some girl that’s less time that he’s spending with Sam.

It isn’t the first time Dean has gone out in search of a little action, and he can guarantee it won’t be the last, but he can kind of understand where his brother is coming from. He certainly isn’t going to ask though; there’s probably a heartfelt conversation just brewing below the surface of his baby brother, and that’s the last thing he wants.

Their beers come moments later, though, and Dean pushes the weirdness of his brother to the back of his mind and listens to Sam go on about the case instead. They spend the next few hours tucked away in the bar, having a few rounds. They never get entirely wasted, Dean will make sure that never happens again, but there’s a pleasant buzz in his belly, and he’s got good company.

Sam’s going on about something or other, and Dean knows he should be listening because it’s probably about the case, but instead he just watches the way his brother’s lips move. Sam licks his lips a lot, and Dean counts each time he does. Five times in as many minutes, and Dean’s transfixed by the little flash of tongue, pink and wet, and he really wants to lean over and capture it in his own mouth. Wants to know what exactly his brother tastes like.

He must be drunker than he thought. He stands quickly, knocking an empty bottle over, and he doesn’t bother catching it, just balances himself on the table, dizzy from the blood that’s left his brain and gone straight to his dick. He shouldn’t be thinking about his brother like that; he definitely shouldn’t be getting hard over it.

He coughs and turns his back on Sam, tosses a _be right back_ over his shoulder and stalks off towards the restrooms. He pushes open the wooden door with the little blue man on it and closes it with more force than is probably necessary before flipping the lock. He leans his head against it for a second, then turns to stand in front of the mirror. His eyes are red, shiny and glazed from the alcohol and something else he won’t name.

Turning the faucet on, he lets the cold run until it’s freezing, then splashes his face once, twice. The cold water hits his skin, and he bites back the yelp that threatens to escape. He stands there for a few moments longer, long enough to clear his head, but not too long or else Sam’ll worry and come looking. Will start asking questions Dean doesn’t want to and can’t answer. He can’t even answer his own questions right now.

His breathing returns to normal and his hard on is close to no longer obvious, so he turns the water off and dries his hands on his jeans, then unlocks the door and thrusts it open. A loud cheer goes up from one of the televisions as he rounds the corner, and he looks up just in time, catching himself before he plows into someone.

“Sorry,” he says, hand coming up automatically to land on the young woman’s arm. He grins a little when he sees that it’s the woman from the bar earlier, the one who he may or may not have been keeping an eye out for the entire night. He hadn’t seen her leave, but then he hadn’t caught a glimpse of her since the first time, so he'd assumed she must’ve snuck out another way. He’s pretty happy to see he was mistaken.

She looks up from digging through her purse, arm tense and blue eyes startled, but then she relaxes a little, like maybe she recognizes Dean from earlier too. She smiles back, and Dean lets go of her arm, coughs awkwardly before extending his hand for her to shake.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he apologizes again as she shakes his hand. Her lips part in a grin, revealing white, even teeth and _it’s no problem_. Her hand is soft under his, and he holds it for far longer than is probably appropriate, but she doesn’t pull away so he figures it’s okay. Her nails are painted the same color as her dress, the same color as her lipstick. A deep red that he thinks would look just as nice wrapped around his -

“Hey.”

Sam interrupts his train of thought before it can go anywhere good, before he can take her out back and show her just how awesome it can be, and he throws his brother an irritated glare. Sam just stands there, though, seemingly unaware of Dean’s annoyance. Nothing unusual.

“Yeah, Sam?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Sam says, but Dean knows that he’s anything but sorry. “But it’s getting kind of late and we’ve got an early start.”

He says all this, eyes never leaving Dean’s, and Dean starts to shift under his gaze, Sam's eyes piercing and making Dean‘s blood pump faster as he thinks about earlier and Sam‘s lips. And _shit_.

Dean knows he should argue with Sam, tell his brother to take the keys and he’ll see him later, but he doesn’t want Sam mad at him. Not now, when there’s so little time left anyway. He knows his brother will inevitably get angry with him before the end, but the less possible chance for arguments, the better.

He drops the woman’s hand, apologizes again for nearly bumping into her, and then he’s ushering Sam out of the bar and towards the Impala. Sam slumps against the passenger side, and Dean stops, stands in front of him. Sam is drunker than he thought, and that’s never good.

Sam’s more like their father than he likes to admit, really, more than _Dean_ likes to admit. They’re both stubborn as hell and stuck in their ways, and they both think they’re right even when they’re not. When they get drunk, they both think about the things that went wrong, they retreat into themselves, and Dean’s the one left dragging them out. He doesn’t think it’s fair.

Sam sighs and Dean turns to leave, but his brother grabs hold of his leather jacket and tugs until he falls forward, bangs his knee against the car. Sam huffs and his breath smells like beer, peanuts, and Sam, and Dean can see in his eyes where Sam thinks this is headed, but Dean can’t allow it. Needs to head it off at the pass. Sam’s hands snake their way up his sides, and Dean tries to push himself free, but Sam just clamps his thighs around Dean, hands reaching for his face.

“Dean,“ Sam says, and Dean turns his head away, can’t look at his brother. Doesn’t answer as Sam says his name again. Again.

He lets Sam manhandle him, though, and then he feels Sam’s lips against his cheek, seeking. It’s wet and uncoordinated, which Dean’s thankful for. Not this, not yet. Certainly not here.

After a second of Sam mouthing at his cheek, Dean pushes hard, and Sam slumps back against the car, his arms falling away and back to his sides. Dean moves away, unlocks the door and shoves Sam inside.

He doesn’t say a word to Sam all the way back to their room, but Sam seems content to just sit there quietly anyway, the bastard. Dean doesn’t know what’s going through his brother’s head, and that’s never good. Dean heaves a sigh, frustrated. There’s so much going through his head right now he doesn’t know where or how to begin sorting the thoughts.

Once they’re inside the room, Sam tosses his bag onto the bed and strips out of his jacket, toeing out of his shoes and mumbling about going to take a shower. He leaves Dean standing there by the door wondering how the hell he managed to get cock-blocked by his brother twice in the same night.

\---

The next day dawns too early for Dean, too bright. He groans loudly and sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed and scrubs a hand over his face. He’s got a headache, but it’s not as bad as it could be, will most likely be gone within the hour. He looks around the room finally, and Sam’s gone and so are the keys, but Dean figures he's just gone out for breakfast. Hopes. He could go for a large, strong coffee. Maybe some bacon.

He heaves up off the bed and stumbles the short distance to the bathroom, carpet rough under his feet. He doesn’t think about the disgusting things that could be living on it, figures whatever it is won't ever compare to all of the things he’s been covered in. Over the last couple of weeks alone.

He splashes a handful of warm water onto his face, doesn’t bother shaving, and then slips into yesterday’s jeans, tomorrow’s T-Shirt. The room door slams closed, and Sam’s voice greets him in the bathroom, smell of donuts and coffee strong.

Sam looks up when he comes out, nods, and Dean does the same. Winchester hello when it’s too early in the morning, when there’s too much awkward. He grabs one of the Styrofoam cups from the container and peels off the lid, inhales the steam and caffeine before taking a scalding sip. It’s fixed just how he likes it, not black but not so much cream that it becomes coffee flavored milk. No sugar. If you can no longer taste the bean, then what’s the point?

“Okay?” Dean asks, when he can no longer stand the silence.

Sam only nods, sits and chews, then swallows. Dean watches him over the rim of his cup, waiting. Sam never says anything, though, and Dean reaches out to grab a donut before his brother eats them all. Sam may like his healthy stuff, but he still eats a lot. And yet he calls Dean the pig.

They finish breakfast in silence, the only sound their swallows and Dean’s moan when he takes a particularly good bite from a donut. Sam snorts at him, but Dean just flips him off because it was delicious. Dean’s well aware that sometimes his food is porn. He’s not ashamed.

After clearing the table, they head out to the car and Dean drives them back to the woods. Along the way, Sam fills him in on what he learned from his research. It’s not much, but it’s all they have to go on. The hardest part is going to be finding the bear and then not getting eaten. Dean figures that they should just spend the night there, assuming they don’t find the thing during daylight hours. He hopes it doesn’t sneak up on them while they’re asleep, but if it’s as big as everyone claims it is, they’ll probably hear it anyway.

They climb from the car and unpack their stuff from the trunk, Dean grabbing every available weapon he thinks they’ll need while Sam slips his pack onto his shoulders. Dean pats the trunk of the car and Sam rolls his eyes at him, then they set off into the woods. The trees are tall and dense, branches and leaves form a canopy over head. Dean looks up and watches as a bird circles, then lands. It flutters its wings a little and Dean’s eyes track the white splotch until it lands just shy of Sam’s right shoulder. He tries to hide the snort but fails.

“What?” Sam asks, looking over at him.

“Nothin’ man, just y’know,” Dean replies. He clears his throat and purses his lips before looking away from Sam and continues walking. “Never mind.”

The forest has always kind of creeped Dean out. Hundreds of trees towering over you, looking exactly the same no matter which way you turn so you can’t find your way out. Things scurrying around in the underbrush that you can’t see. All of those old fairy tales, the ones dealing with wicked stepmothers and witches? Take place in the friggin’ woods.

“Maybe we should just burn down the whole forest,” he says. Sam’s a little ways ahead of him, but he stops short at Dean’s words and turns to look at him like he’s lost his mind.

“What?”

“No, I mean it.” Dean catches up with him and looks around them, maybe glares a little. “Trees are evil, man. I have one word for you Sammy: ‘Wendigo‘.”

“You’re crazy, Dean.” Sam shakes his head and starts walking again, Dean following close behind. “We’re not starting a forest fire.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds the chirping of the birds and the foliage rustling under their feet, their breath as they trek through the roughest parts coming in harsh pants. Sam’s pulled ahead again, and Dean watches his ass shift beneath his jeans before shaking his head. He doesn’t have time for the places those thoughts will lead.

They finally reach a small clearing a little farther than halfway in, and Sam stops to unhook his pack from his shoulders, then lets it drop to the ground. They’ll rest for a minute, but they can’t afford to stop for too long. Daylight is wasting. His brother pulls out a map, follows the lines with his finger, brow furrowed in concentration. Dean wanders off behind a tree to take a piss, Sam’s eyes burning between his shoulder blades the whole way.

\--- 

They start off again a few moments later, this time with Dean pulling the lead. He can hear every movement Sam makes from behind him; it’s purposeful, careful. It’s the same way Dean walks, and it strikes something in him that he taught Sammy to walk like that. That he taught Sammy to walk.

It’s foolish to get sentimental, and he pushes the thought as far away as possible. He needs to keep his head on the case. Later when they’re done maybe he’ll drown his sorrows in some scotch, in some girl somewhere. Right now, he has to focus on the hunt and keeping Sam alive. The past and the months ahead don’t matter now.

Hours later, it's starting to get dark, and they haven’t gotten any closer to finding the thing than they were yesterday. Dean’s tired of walking. He stops and turns to his brother, and Sam’s standing there, looking around. He catches Dean's eye and quirks a brow, _here?_ , and Dean nods. Here is as good a place as any.

Sam strips off his pack again. Dean follows suit and then sets about salting the perimeter around them while Sam sets up the rest of their supplies and unrolls their sleeping bags.

Dean’s always hated camping out, sleeping on the hard, rocky ground and fighting bugs (and maybe he just hates all things nature). He’d rather sleep in his baby, tucked up tight in the backseat, knowing he could take the hell off if he needed to. But they haven’t got a position pinpointed on the bear and don’t know how long it will take to find the bastard, and it‘s better to be prepared.

He finishes salting the area and turns back to find Sam sitting on a fallen log and looking through his notes. Dean settles down next to him, dusting his hands on his jeans and watching Sam out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” Sam finally looks up after a minute and gives Dean a questioning glance.

“Nothin’,” Dean replies, and Sam goes back to his research. “Just - how are we supposed to catch this thing?”

While they may hunt demons or other creatures of the night and the occasional crazy hick who strays too far from the mountains, they're not traditional hunters by any means. Wendigos and werewolves and psychos who didn’t get enough hugs when they were kids are something else entirely. Even if the bear is harboring something they're used to, it's going to be one hell of a fight.

“I figure we treat it just like any other possession. Sketch out a devil‘s trap and lure it in somehow. Maybe you could be the bait.”

Dean purses his lips and pretends to think about it for a second. “I am awfully tasty,” he replies, and Sam grins. It’s not as open as his smiles used to be, but it reaches his eyes, and that’s enough for Dean. Sam bumps his shoulder with his own and looks back at the pile of papers in his lap.

“Seriously, though. I figure we make enough noise and the thing’ll come to us. What’s a four hundred pound bear, anyway?”

“Nothin’ we can’t handle,” Dean says, even if he’s still a little skeptical about their abilities. He hopes it doesn’t have to come down to them hurting the bear in any way, but he’ll do what he needs to in order to keep down the innocent victim death count.

They sit and talk about the case for a little while, about Bobby and random things from when they were kids. Dean sees it in Sam’s eyes that he wants to talk about the end of his days, but he quickly avoids that topic. They’ve talked about it so much Dean’s sick of it, is almost ready to go to hell just to avoid talking about it again. _Almost_.

Night draws nearer, and Dean wanders off to find some dry wood they can use to build a fire. The nights are colder now, and they’ll need more warmth than their old , thin sleeping bags can provide.

And it’s as close to a forest fire as Sam will allow Dean to get.


End file.
